


Also, There Was Spring

by NorthernStar



Series: Four Seasons (The Musketeer's Child) [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Gen, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernStar/pseuds/NorthernStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day in spring, in the year 1650...</p><p><b>Chapter One: Morning</b> - Isabelle knew he would come, he <i>always</i> came, and maybe she could make him see that the choice she had made was <i>good.</i><br/><b>Chapter Two: Midday</b> - “This could get you hanged. This could get <i>me</i> hanged.  Do you know how many times your father has almost got me hanged?”<br/><b>Chapter Three: Afternoon</b> - “You cannot know, Porthos, the pain of having a child in the world that you do not know.”</p><p>Sequel to "Five Days of Summer at Bourbon-Les-Eaux (And Two Nights of Bitter Winter)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning (Isabelle)

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly wasn't going to continue with this verse. But then life turned shitty and now I have the flu and *shrugs* here it is. Not entirely sure why. Maybe I need to be in a place where there's an excess of love to go round but they _still_ feel sadness. (Guh, forgive me, ill = melo-dramatic)
> 
> I made it a series so the earlier parts are easier to find but I think the title (musketeer's child) is flipping awful. Any suggestions on an improvement are gratefully received. :o)

**Spring, 1950**  
  
 **Morning** _(Isabelle)_  
  
  
“Hmmm…” 

The young king’s eyes once again lost focus and he paused for a moment.

“May I go, your majesty?”  Isabelle asked.

Louis blinked and then waved her away.  “Yes,” he said, “yes, of course.”

Isabelle curtsied and withdrew from the king’s chamber.  Philippe followed at her side, hands fidgeting with continual energy.  She did not dare to look back at the king as she walked, but she could feel his eyes upon her.

Isabelle had long since decided that he was trying to place her.  Her mother had assured her that his memories of Bourbon-Les-Eaux were lost to the haze of early childhood and that was probably true, but Isabelle sensed, when faced with those distant lapses of the king's, that something gnawed in the back of his mind.  A vague recognition of her name, perhaps, or maybe her face, her hair, the sound of her voice…  At first, it had worried her, but as the months passed, it was obvious that Louis had no curiosity about her and might not have even been aware of his little vacancies.  Her secrets were safe; she was safe here, no matter what her father feared. 

 _(“You would risk your life for this?  My life? The lives of our friends?”_ Aramis had yelled. 

_“I want to know my mother and my brothers, Papa!”_

_“Then we will visit Bourbon-Les-Eaux again.”_

_“I want to know them properly.  I don’t want to have days, papa, I want months and years.  I’ve lost so much time and I_ won’t _lose anymore.”_

 _“You could lose more than time, Isabelle!  By going to the palace you risk your mother’s life, Philippe’s life.”_   His face had become an angry mask.  _“You will not go, Isabelle, I forbid it.”_

Her hands had trembled as she had pulled herself up to her full height and stared determined into his eyes.  _“I am not a child anymore.”_ She had said and managed to keep the words reasonable and even. _“And you cannot stop me, Papa.”_ )

Her status at court was officially as the niece and ward of the Comte de la Fere and Athos had assumed the responsibilities of that role, setting aside money and some land for a dowry and providing her with a yearly income, despite the arrangement being little more than show for the palace officials who would certainly have objected to the appointment of an illegitimate child of a humble abbe to such a position in the royal house.  Porthos had been amused by his actions and teased her that now she had a responsibility to marry well or bring shame on Athos’ house.  _“And who knows”_ he had added with a laugh, _“you may even rescue the reputation of the d’Herblay name as well.”_

As a consequence, she now saw far more of Athos than she did her father and the estrangement weighed heavy on her heart.  But she did not regret the choices that she made. 

“May we go outside, Isabelle?” Philippe asked as they walked.

“Perhaps later.”  She told him.  “It is too cold right now.”  

“I wish winter was over.”  He said with a sigh.

Isabelle smiled.  “It is, Philippe.”  She bent down and looked into the boy’s dark brown eyes.  “Today is the first day of spring and I will tell you a secret about it if you promise to keep it?”

Philippe nodded enthusiastically.

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear.  “It is my birthday.  And papa is coming here so we can go riding together.” 

“Aramis is coming today!”  Philippe bounced a little.

Isabelle put her finger to her lips.  “Shh!  Yes.  And I think we should surprise him.”  She told him.  “But you will need to keep still and be very, very quiet.”  
  
-o0o-  
  
The Queen walked out into the long corridor, flanked by two of her ladies-in-waiting.  Her face was blankly disinterested as she watched Isabelle curtsy respectfully.  It had disturbed Isabelle at first, to see such complete indifference on her mother’s face, but she understood its necessity. 

“You wished to see me, your majesty?”  She said.

“Yes, Isabelle.”  The Queen continued her slow pace down the corridor, indicating for her servants to wait at the door ready to be summoned with a small wave of her hand. 

Isabelle fell into step a little behind her, as befit the station that she held.  She longed to stop and look Anne in the eye and talk freely, but the opportunities for that were very few and far between.  She tried to content herself with the glimpses she caught of her mother’s profile.

Once they were a safe distance down the empty corridor and would not be overheard, Anne said, “I had given up hope of ever greeting this day without sadness in my heart.”  She continued looking straight ahead.  “I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you are here today.”

“I am sure we will spend many more of my birthday’s together,” _Maman_ , her heart finished.  It often did.  Embracing the word and all that it meant with an ease her lips had yet to do.   

“I have a gift for you.  I only wish I could give it to you in person but it would be unwise.”

“Thank you.”  She said, because she could think of no other reply.  She still felt awkward around her mother, unsure of what to say.

“It is no less than you deserve.”  Anne’s head dipped a little.  “You will join me in the gardens later?”

There were sections of the gardens, where the hedges grew tall and dense, that allowed for private conversations and the abandonment of the rigid formality that kept their secret safe.  They were careful not to walk there too often, fearing the suspicion that might arise if they did, and that made their meetings all the more precious to Isabelle. 

“I cannot.”  She replied and saw her mother’s shoulders tense. 

“You do not have any duties to _le petit monsieur_ today.”

“I know.  But…”  She felt her stomach twist.  “My father always takes me riding on my birthday.”

The Queen’s step faltered, but then she recovered herself. 

Isabelle struggled to maintain the same composure.  “He will be here soon.  I cannot disappoint him,” she forced herself not to look at the queen because, while the corridor looked empty, there were very few places in the palace that they could be sure of being unobserved. 

“Aramis is very fortunate.”  There was bitterness in Anne’s voice and it clawed at Isabelle’s heart. 

“I am sorry,” _Maman_.  She longed to explain that her decision to accept a position in the royal house, despite the danger and against her father’s wishes, had hurt Aramis badly and that she had been counting the days to her birthday since their bitter parting at Christmas because she knew he _would_ come, he _always_ came, and maybe she could make him see that the choice she had made was _good_.

“You will join me there tomorrow?”

Relief flooded through her.  “Yes.”  She said and words gushed out, “yes, I would like that very much, Mmah…”  _Maman._   It stuck in her throat.

Anne’s head turned, looked right at her in a flash of delighted surprise that left Isabelle in no doubt that she’d heard her all the same, before she regained her composure.  She stopped and the barest hint of a smile played on her lips. 

“May you ride safely, Isabelle.”

Isabelle curtsied and bowed her head.  “Thank you, your majesty.”

When she raised her eyes, the Queen was walking serenely away.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Philippe frowned at the frost covered ground that lay beyond the confines of the palace.  He looked up at his Isabelle.  “Are you sure it is spring?”

She tickled him under the chin.  “Yes.”  She told him and held out a cloak.  “Now remember what I told you.”


	2. Midday (D'Artagnan)

**Midday** _(D’Artagnan)_  
  


D’Artagnan strode through the palace grounds with his two best soldiers at his side.  “…Take 5 of the regiment – I recommend Du Lac, he’s an expert marksman, but the others are your choice – and find Belcourt.  He must not be allowed to re-join the Frondeurs.”  He stopped and looked at Payseur.  “Word of his capture must not reach Mazarin.”

His soldier’s dipped their heads.  “You can rely upon our discretion,” Payseur said.

D’Artagnan watched them leave and felt a tug of envy.  Once upon a time, that had been himself, riding off on a mission with Athos and Aramis and Porthos at his side.  Returning days later, battered and bruised and sometimes bloodied too, but alive and Constance would be waiting for him…  He missed the simplicity of those times.  It had been so much easier to know who to trust back then.

He allowed himself a moment to remember fondly before pulling himself back into the here and now to begin walking towards the stables to collect his horse.  Those had been good times, the best times, but he was proud of the life he lived now.  

And yet a little more excitement and danger would not go amiss.

The harsh frost that had this morning turned the mud to solid, uneven ground had thawed and his boots sank into the filth as he approached the soldier’s stables.  There was nothing like the finery housing the king’s animals here.  The horses of the garrison stood side by side, a row of muscular haunches and untidy tails.

There was clunk from inside the stables.  D’Artagnan stopped.  No one was due to come off duty for several hours yet and he had passed the stable boy on his way in.  His hand went to his sword.

“Who goes there?”  He demanded.  “Show yourself!”

There was no answer.  

D’Artagnan stepped closer.  It was dark inside the stables and far too cramped to mount a good defence.  But he drew his sword anyway and slipped between the flanks of two of the horses.

A faint scrape, metal on wood, sounded behind him.  He turned.  “I am D’Artagnan of the King’s musketeers.  Show yourself now!”

A narrow figure left the shadows and while he could not see their features, he knew the shape and form of their walking better than he knew almost any other persons.  Perhaps because some of the very first steps she took were into his arms.

“Isabelle.”  D’Artagnan pushed his sword back into its scabbard.  “You should not be here.”  He didn’t add that the girls who did come here soon gained poor reputations.

Aramis’ daughter came towards him and it probably wasn’t appropriate to allow her to hug him so openly but he found his arms full nonetheless.  “D’Artagnan! You scared me,” she said.  “I thought you were the captain.”

Her fear, which seemed genuine, seemed greatly out of proportion and he struggled not to be amused.  “The captain would not be chasing governesses.”  He looked scolding at her.  “Even ones who sneak off their duties to visit soldiers.”

She looked horrified.  “I am not visiting soldiers!”  

“Then what are you doing here?”

Much like her father’s temper, her anger did not last and she smiled.  “You know I always go riding with papa on my birthday.”

“Your birthday?”

“I shall be upset if you have forgotten, D’Artagnan,” she told him.  “Papa says you were _there_.”

While he could hardly have forgotten what was one of the most dangerous days of his life, he had not realised the anniversary of that was today.  He might have felt some embarrassment over that if he had not had long experience of what a d’Herblay looked like when they were trying to distract you.  Because there was a flaw in her answer.  “Your horse would be at the main stables.” 

“I was looking for a small cart or trap I could borrow,” she said.

He frowned.  “Why would you need a cart?”

There was a loud sneeze from under the hay.  Isabelle looked alarmed and maybe he would have found it amusing if he wasn’t so _shocked_.  “No soldiers?”  He echoed, striding purposely towards the source of the sound.  He would have whatever musketeer was hiding there thrown out of the regiment by sun down.

“D’Artagnan, don’t!”  She gripped his arm.  “It is not what you think!”

The hay moved and let out a stifled, childish giggle.

D’Artagnan froze and the details clicked into place in his mind.  And he thought her father never considered the consequences of his actions…  

“You’re riding out to meet Aramis.”  He repeated slowly.  “With something that you need to, let me guess, _hide_ , in a cart…?”

Isabelle offered him a smile, so like her father’s, as if that was all the defence she would ever need. 

“Please,” he said, “tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

Philippe’s straw covered head popped out from under the hay.  “I’m going to surprise Aramis!”

Isabelle’s eyes widened in horror and she put her finger to her lips.  The boy immediately disappeared again.  

“Are you going to..?”  D’Artagnan stepped closer to her.  “Isabelle, you cannot steal away children.”

“I’m not stealing him, I’m his _governess_.”  She said the last word awkwardly.  “And we will back before evening prayer and no one will ever know.”

“And what if the guards stop and search you at the gates?”  D’Artagnan demanded.  “And they will if you try to leave with a cart.”

Her face fell.  

He laid a hand on her elbow.  “Take Philippe back inside and I will get your horse ready for you.”    

She looked up at him.  “I just wanted to do this for papa.”  Her voice was barely above a whisper.  “So that he will forgive me.”

D’Artagnan felt his stomach clench.  He did understand that.  Aramis’ anger at his daughter’s actions had been fierce and he had released much of that rage upon Athos, whose actions had enabled Isabelle to accept her mother’s offer of a position in court.

She waited, hope written so terribly on her face.  He had wished for some excitement.  He should know by now that you never, never do that, because trouble will always accept an invitation.

“This could get you hanged.”  He said because he could feel his resolve bending, just like it always had for her father, and he should just give in now.  “This could get _me_ hanged.”  He sighed.  “Do you know how many times your father has almost got me hanged?”

A cautious smile crept onto her lips.  “Papa says it’s no more five.”  She told him, “but I am sure it must be more.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, sighed again loudly and decided that he would never learn.   “If I ride out with you, you will not be stopped.”

Isabelle grinned and hugged him.  “Thank you, D’Artagnan.” 

“But we are going to have to plan this better.”  
  
-o0o-  
  
When D’Artagnan was small, he would accompany his father to market by riding on the edge of the pig cart.  He liked watching the way the bumps and runts in the road made his legs swing and jolt in the empty space as if they did not belong to him.  It was one of the few things that stopped market day from just being a terrible bore.  Only…he had soon grown too big for that and once he was ten he was able to ride his own horse for long enough distances for that to be his mode of transport.  But before he was ten, over one glorious autumn, there were the Tent Market Days…

“Tent Market Day.”  D’Artagnan muttered as he sat stiff in the saddle of his horse, shoulders rigid and square against the pull of the ridiculously long cape that draped down in a graceful slant to cover the horse’s sides and rear.

At his side, Isabelle rode on her palomino.  She looked over at him when he spoke but her attention was drawn to his back.  She leaned precariously off the saddle.  “Philippe!”  She hissed at D’Artagnan back. 

“Shuffle down.  It looks like D’Artagnan has a hunch.”

D’Artagnan felt the boy who was hiding in the ‘tent’ of his cape wiggling about, all sharp elbows and pointy bones.

“No up a little!”  She whispered loudly.  “You are making D’Artagnan’s bottom too big!”

Philippe giggled loudly.

“Remember, very still and _very_ quiet!”

With admirable obedience, the boy when silent and the only sensation of his presence, pressed against D’Artagnan’s back, was of the warmth of his body leeching through his clothes.

Isabelle sat up in her saddle and looked nervously at him.  “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“When I was a boy, I used to sneak into market and surprise my father’s friends all the time,” he said.  “They never saw me once.”

She threw him a look of horror, “D’Artagnan!”  She cried out.  “Adults _pretend_ not to see a hiding child!”  

Oh.  

In all his long years, that had never occurred to him.  But they were approaching the guards now and to turn back would draw suspicion so there was nothing he could do except ask: “Can you see anything?”

Isabelle looked at the drape of his cape then shook her head.  “No.”

The guards who stood in their paths were Jacques and Fleance, both good soldiers who D’Artagnan respected but did not necessarily like.  Fleance eyed Isabelle with the kind of open admiration that bordered, in D’Artagnan eyes, on immoral.

“D’Artagnan.”  Jacques said, by way of greeting.  “Mademoiselle de la Fere.”  He removed his hat and bowed to Isabelle and showed every intention of just letting them pass.

Fleance had no such intention, catching Isabelle’s bridle and grinning up at her.  “It is a very cold day for ride.”

“I love the countryside when there is a chill in the air,” Isabelle smiled.  

“D’Artagnan can always lend you his cloak should you need it.”  Jacques declared.  “I have never seen such a long one.  It will certainly keep you warm.”

Fleance looked at the cloak dismissively.  “If his horse doesn’t befoul it first.”  He spat.  “Lift if off the animal’s backside, Jacques, before the lieutenant is embarrassed.”

Jacques reached for the hem.

“Don’t!”  

Jacques hand stopped and he looked up a D’Artagnan, surprised at his sudden outburst.

“He won’t befoul the cape.  He’s…”  His words dried up on him and he could only finish, “…been already today.”  He cleared his throat.  “He only goes…once a day.”

He could feel Philippe’s face pressing into him and little huffs of air where the boy was trying not to laugh.  As if his royal boniness could offer a better reply.

Isabelle looked at him, with her eyebrows up.

Jacques stepped back.  “My sister takes laundry.”  He told him.  “But she will charge extra for…” he waved a hand at the horse’s rear, “…that.”

D’Artagnan forced a smile.  “I’ll bear that in mind.”  

He heard Isabelle giggle at something Fleance had murmured to her and when he looked over to her, she was bent a little forward in saddle with a coy smile on her face.

“We should be going.”  D’Artagnan said sharply and geed his horse onwards.  

“Goodbye.”  Isabelle said.

“Should you wish to go riding on another cold day, mademoiselle,” Fleance called after them.  “I would gladly offer my services as your escort.”

To D’Artagnan annoyance, the girl turned in her saddle and smiled back at the musketeer.

“Isabelle!”

She faced forward again as they passed without any further incident through the gates.  “Don’t look like that.”  Isabelle said.  “’ _He goes once a day?_ ’”  She repeated in a low voice that he presumed was an approximation of his own.  “If I hadn’t flirted with him, he might have looked under your cape!”

“You didn’t see how he was looking at you.”

“I saw perfectly fine. He was being nice.”

“He was looking at you like a man who can’t be trusted.”

“Now you sound like papa.”

“We’ve both seen far too many untrustworthy men.”  D’Artagnan pointed out.  “So maybe you should listen.”

“I can take care of myself.”

So like her father.  “I know that.  Aramis knows that.”  D’Artagnan replied.  “But you have to remember the choice that you’ve made and guard yourself against anything that could jeopardise that.”

Isabelle looked over at him.  He hoped she understood his meaning, that any jealousy or bad feeling or poor reputation could spark someone’s interest in her background and who knew where the loose thread could lie that would unravel her secret.  He could hardly express it clearly with young ears listening.

“It is the only way any of us are safe.”  He finished.

They trotted on a while in silence before Philippe’s muffled voice whispered, “can I come out?”  

“Not yet, your majesty.”  D’Artagnan replied.  “We need to get out onto the road.” 

The boy sighed and pressed against D’Artagnan’s back.  
  
-o0o-  
  
It was not that long before they reached the countryside and Philippe was able to swap the ‘tent’ for a more comfortable seat against Isabelle’s chest.

At the crest of the hill, many yards ahead, two horsemen stood waiting and he knew them as he knew himself.  And as it always had since he was boy new to Paris and the musketeer life, his heart began to beat fast.  

“I knew papa would still come,” Isabelle said.  “Thank you, D’Artagnan.  We never would have made it without you.”

“You’ve been threatening to get me hanged since before you born.”  He grinned at her.  “I think it’s a little too late for me to be worrying about it now.”

And with that he kicked his horse into gallop and headed for his friends.  
  



	3. Afternoon (Aramis)

The sky had begun to darken, inky black clouds hanging low in sky as if they might brush against the trees, and a cruel wind had blown up, harsh and biting, that sliced through the thin and humble fabric of the abbe’s clothes that Aramis wore. 

“Gonna rain.”  Porthos grunted.

Aramis looked up and remembered Isabelle, on her seventh birthday, galloping through a rainstorm on the pony he had given her, laughing wildly.  The weather had never mattered then.

Back when being a father had been so simple.  Back when all was needed was love and laughter, providing food and the safety and comfort of his arms and time just took care of the rest.

Further down the road, mere shapes at this distance, two riders approached.  Aramis pulled up his horse and looked across at Porthos.  His friend stopped as well, looking questioningly at him.

“Isabelle.”  Aramis said because his eyes were still sniper sharp even after all these years and the whip and lash of his daughter’s hair in the wind was something that he just _knew_.

Porthos frowned at him but didn’t reply.  Instead they watched the riders come closer and then one break off from the other in a gallop.

“D’Artagnan!”  Porthos grinned as soon as the horseman was close enough to identify and they both dismounted. 

Aramis’ eyes remaining on his daughter, her horse slowly trotting up the hill towards them, as D’Artagnan joined them.   He heard Porthos and D’Artagnan exchange enthusiastic greetings but after a brief clasp of his friend’s arm, he walked his horse forward. 

He had not gone more than a dozen or so paces when he stopped.  A confusing mix of cold fear and intense heat seized him.

No, it could not be…

There was a boy in the saddle with Isabelle, dark haired and handsome and so finely dressed.  A boy of about nine…

His knees felt sickeningly and shamefully weak and he could not say if were from hope or fear.

How could she be so reckless…!

(But the hope was too terrible.  He had not seen his son since that fateful night he had ridden away from Bourbon-Les-Eaux and his heart had felt like it had been bleeding every moment since.)

Isabelle’s horse finally reached him and she smiled down at him.  “Papa,” she said and he could not tear his eyes away from the dark haired boy in the saddle with her, “this is Philippe.”

He was aware of D’Artagnan and Porthos removing their hats and bowing to the young prince but it was as if his own bones had frozen into rictus.

“Philippe,” Isabelle continued, “say hello to Papa.”

The boy smiled boldly and twisted free of the saddle, leaping down to stand in front of Aramis.  “It is always a pleasure to meet one of the king’s musketeers.”  He said formally, but there was enough of a fidget in his limbs as he spoke to betray the inner battle to keep to royal convention when clearly his very presence here showed how much he was longing to throw it off. 

“It is…good to meet you, your majesty.”  His mouth was suddenly as dry as sand.

Isabelle dismounted and was quickly enveloped in one of Porthos’ bear hugs.  “Look at you dressed up all fine,” he said.  “Where’d that grubby little girl go, ay?”

Aramis tore his eyes away from Philippe to look at his daughter.  She was indeed immaculately dressed; the very picture of a lady of the royal court.  She looked back at him from the safety of Porthos’ arms with eyes full of worry and hope, nervous of her reception after the bitterness of their parting.

As if he could ever blame her for her impulsiveness, when she had surely inherited from himself, or deny her right to anger now that she knew the truth of her life and how much he had concealed from her.

“Isabelle,” he said and put out an arm.

A fragile smile appeared and she stepped forward, but at that moment thunder crashed overhead and rain began to pelt out the sky.  Philippe squealed and dashed for the shelter of D’Artagnan’s cloak.  “It’s raining, Isabelle!”  He wailed, unnecessarily.

Isabelle laughed and tipped back her head to face the oncoming torrent.  “I _love_ riding through the rain.” 

Her hair and dress would be ruined within minutes.

“That’s my girl.”  Porthos chuckled as they all hurried to mount their horses.

  
-o0o-

  
Aramis rode ahead of the others, at a hard pace, with Isabelle’s horse keeping steady at his side.  Philippe was laughing in the saddle behind Isabelle, his face pressed against her back to shelter it from the harsh lash of water droplets hit at speed.

Riding with Isabelle on her birthdays had been a memorial, to that terrible desperate ride out of Bradonne barely minutes after Isabelle had been born, with fear at the royal party behind them discovering the deception gnawing at his innards and worse still, fear that this tiny scrap of life was simply to small and delicate for such a journey and every beat of his horses hooves beneath them ushered her closer to the grave.  And how would he live with that..?

But they had ridden together that day and had been safe.  And on every birthday since…

He remembered being sick and weak on Isabelle’s fifth birthday from a musket ball he had taken to his thigh only the week before.  He had been barely able to sit in the saddle for more than one slow, pathetic trot around his sister’s farmstead with Isabelle pressed against his chest.  Porthos had all but carried him back into the house once it was done and he had collapsed into bed.  Isabelle had crawled in after him and curled against his chest, small and warm and fragile.  And he could not have properly described the will that drove him, only that as the years passed it came to feel like this _kept_ them safe and he would not toy with fate again.

Aramis had not dared to hope that Philippe would get to share this with them.  And yet here he was…

His son…

His son was beautiful and happy and would, in all probability, go to the grave not knowing who the two people with him now really were and how much they truly loved him. 

Isabelle must have charmed her mother so prettily to convince her to allow Philippe to come, and exercised yet more to receive the King’s blessing as well. 

Lightning cracked across the sky. 

Her actions lacked caution at best and Aramis could only hope they would not court any curiosity as to why a simple governess was allowed such enormous privilege.

Thunder rumbled all around.

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan yelled. “We’d best find shelter.” 

  
  
-o0o-

  
They found a barn soon after, with a broken roof and no door, next to a small but fast flowing river but once inside, they found that its thick walls kept out most of the wind and rain and with the addition of a fire; it was quite a cosy place to wait out the worst of the storm. 

Philippe was all wide eyed at this new and exciting world of mud and straw and smoke, so different from the constrictive, perfumed confines of the palace.  There was a growing boldness in the way he help Porthos build the fire and the succinct and engaged questions that he asked betrayed a quick and lively mind.  The only time he fell still was to listen to Porthos’ stories while wrapped in D’Artagnan’s cloak.

Aramis caught Isabelle watching him watch Philippe and she smiled.  His heart was caught between indescribable gratitude for bringing him his son and hot anger at her actions, for this kind of unplanned recklessness was exactly what he feared when she had left. 

She moved to sit at his side.  “Do you like my birthday present to you?” 

He did not trust himself to reply, because he did not want to seem ungrateful (and he was grateful, so very, very grateful for these precious stolen moments) but the fear was knotting to anger and…

“I love Philippe so much, papa,” she whispered.  “He’s so sweet and kind and I wanted you to know him too.”

“Isabelle…”  He began, “you should not -”

“I had to.”

“Isabelle –” He tried again.

“No.  I had to do this, papa.”  She got to her feet and their friend’s chatter fell silent.  She turned and made for the door, disappearing out into the rain.

He gave his friend’s a reassuring look before heading outside.  He found Isabelle by the river, staring resolutely into its depth as if it might provide answers.  The rain had lessened but the wind blew just a cruelly, perhaps even more so, and he shivered.

“Isabelle?”

“You were so angry when I left.”  She told him.  “I’ve never made you angry before.  That’s why I had to bring Philippe, so you would stop being angry with me so please don’t be angrier.”  The words were strangled and her lip trembled but she did not cry.

“I am not angry.”  He told her and didn’t know if that was the truth.  He hoped it was.  “When you were small, it was not easy to protect you, but I never doubted my ability to do so.  I grew complacent as the years began to pass but that last summer at Bourbon-Les-Eaux taught me a lesson I will never forget: you will never be safe.”  He took her shoulders in his hands, looked into her eyes.  “You must always remember, Isabelle, that your life would be forfeit if Louis discovered who you were.  And probably your mother’s and Philippe’s as well.”

She covered his hand with hers.  “I am safe.”  She told him.  “I promise.”

She was still young enough to believe that and it filled his heart with dread.

“Isabelle!”  Philippe’s voice called and they turned to see his head poking out of the barn.  “Isabelle, Porthos says Aramis needs to catch fish!”

  
-o0o-

  
  
The heavy rain made catching fish in the stream even easier.  Philippe hunched on a rock, studiously watching the process.

“Aramis?”  Philippe asked in a whisper, because Aramis had explained that if he wished to watch, he would need to be quiet and still and not frighten the fish.  “Can you teach me to do that?”

The all too brief moments that followed, cupping his son’s hands and guiding his movements, were some of the most precious of his life.

  
-o0o-

  
“Philippe is your son as well, isn’t he?”

Aramis smiled, “I always suspected you knew.”

“But you never thought to tell me anyway?”  There was a note of anger in his voice and Aramis knew it was deserved.

“I’m sorry.”  Aramis told him.  “I believed you would be safer if you did not know.”

“I’ve never cared about being safe.”  Porthos replied.  “I care about _you_ being safe, and Isabelle, and that’s something you should’ve told me so I can go on making sure you’re safe because God knows, one of us needs to and you’re never going to do it.”

Aramis smiled at his friend’s words.  No matter how many years passed, Porthos had weathered them with the essence of his soul as brave and as loyal and as pure as it had ever been. 

His wished the same could be said of his own.  But it was not.  “His birth was meant as my retribution.”  He admitted.

“How can you say that?”

“I stole Isabelle from her mother and I never truly understood the pain I had inflicted upon her until Philippe was born.”

“Aramis, you didn’t steal Isabelle, you took her away to save her life.  Do you think Louis would have let her live if he found her?  And if he did, what her life would be like?  A prisoner in the bastille, masked in iron so that he wouldn’t have to look upon her face and see you or the Queen.”  Porthos said.  “And you gave her back as much as you could.”

“You cannot know, Porthos,” he said, “the pain of having a child in the world that you do not know.”

Porthos fell silent.

Aramis continued eating, his thoughts on the journey to Beauce and the stop they had to make at Loir-et-Cher when the carriage had thrown a wheel.  Taking watch over the Queen’s chambers and finding Anne wide awake and waiting for him.  Being pressed for details about Isabelle – how tall was she now, did she ride, did she shoot, was she happy, so many questions – and it had been as natural as breathing that they had come together and perhaps he had known what would come of it, because months later, when the court announced the Queen was once again with child, it did not come as a surprise.  Rather it had been the jolt of a musket firing, sharp and sudden, but with a tang of inevitability left behind, like the scent of spent gunpowder.

At his side, Porthos was still silent and had abandoned his meal, largely uneaten, and perhaps he would have commented on that, had Philippe not come running through the clearing, with Isabelle on his tail, laughing and holding aloft a large trout that was wriggling and flopping in his hands.

“Look Aramis, I did it!”  He crowed. 

“That is a very fine fish indeed, Philippe.”

“I going to take him home and show maman and he can live in the fountain pond outside my window and –”

“He’s going back in the river.”  Isabelle said and reached for the fish.

Philippe danced back, hugging the poor gasping creature to his chest.  “No, he’s mine.”

“Philippe, fish cannot live outside of water.  There is no way to take him back to the palace.”  Aramis explained.  “We have more than our fill of fish today so to kill him would be unnecessary.  It is best to return him to his home and who knows, perhaps you will catch him another day.”

The young prince pouted and clutched his fish tighter and Aramis had to bite back the smile because he looked so much like Isabelle when she determined to do something.

“We can take him back together and release him and I will show you other ways to hunt.”  He shifted his musket.

Philippe’s eyes widened.  “Shooting?”

“I have a feeling you might have inherited quite a talent for it.”  Aramis smiled.

  
-o0o-

  
“Papa?”

Aramis pulled his eyes away from where D’Artagnan and Porthos were instructing Philippe in the proper way to wield a sword to look as his daughter as she came to sit at his side.  “Yes, _polilla_ ,” he replied and watched her smile at the old endearment.  It had been a long time since he had called her that.

“I know you want me to say sorry and I would say it just so that you will forgive me for disobeying you.  But I wouldn’t mean it, papa.”  She told him.  “And I think you know that.”

He did.

“Because I don’t regret it,” she continued.  “I would make the same decision again if I could do it all over.  I know so many things now, papa…  Apples: Philippe loves them.  Bees: maman can spend hours in the orchard watching them.  Cards: Louis is a very good player.  Danger:  Philippe has no sense of it.  Eggs –”

“Are you going to go through the whole alphabet?”

“If I must.”  She smiled sadly.  “If it will make you understand…” She bent her head. 

He thought of Philippe’s small body pressed against his as he showed him how to charm fish, the beauty of his delighted smile when he succeeded…  “I do, _pollila_ , I always have.”

“Those things are worth risking my life for, papa.”

“It’s not just your life though,” Porthos’ voice cut in.  “Is it?”

Aramis turned to see his friend standing behind them.

“I just finished a very interestin’ conversation with D’Artagnan.” Porthos continued and looked directly at Isabelle.  “When were you plannin’ on telling your father that you stole Philippe out of the palace?”


End file.
